Orions Spartans: Origins
by Os Kitsune
Summary: Four spartans, abducted after augmentation, their deaths flasified, are inducted into Section three. Cast behind enemy lines constantly in suicidal  missions. One by one they will fall. This is their story.
1. Insertion

**0100 hours, October 18, 2532 (Military Calendar)\ Lambda Serpentis **

**System, New Mongolian Desert, Jericho IV.**

Two silver moons cast pale light along the stretch of chilling barren desert, illuminating the whisps of sand that were being blown off the numerous 10 meter dunes. A faint scuffling sound accompanied the sound of the shrieking wind. Quite suddenly, an individual materialized at the top of one dune, casting off the now visible cloak that had been disguising his progress from other living beings. The moonlight served to illuminate his pitch black armor. Bulky, with spikes and curves reminiscent of the armor of the ancient samurai. The individuals helmet encased head quickly glanced to his left and then his right, before he came out of his crouch, bringing his rifle to bear. A barely audible squawk emanated from his radio.

_"This is Bishop. Looks like were clear, feel free to discard the cloaks."_

As suddenly as he had appeared, two more armored individuals, similar to the first, appeared alongside him. The one to his right shifted uncomfortably, a barely noticeable gesture.

"How much farther to the encampment?"

Bishop craned his neck, and in the distance could barely make out faint purple lights on the edge of the horizon. He brought his rifle to bear, and instantly the scope magnified the image.

There were about a thousand of them.

Grunts and Jackals milled through the camp, all needlers and energy shields. That was not a good sign. He sighed.

"Looks to be about three kilometers, if not more. And it looks like intel was wrong."

"How wrong?"

"They underestimated the enemy's strength by about five hundred percent, and it looks like they're expecting us."

"And-?"

Bishop glanced though his scope again. And saw various purple craft circling the airspace above the camp in lazy arcs. Below the aircraft, more vehicles encircled the perimeter of the encampment, the dull light of their antigrav pods illuminating their undersides.

Bishop let out a dark chuckle

"Well, Rook, your gonna love this. They have several banshees and 'bout six ghosts."

Rook let out an inaudible curse and bought an armored hand up to his faceplate.

"And why are we not using the cloaks to get in there?"

Bishop sighed

"Because, Rook, as you know, the Frodo's give off a huge heat signature. Even if, we tried sneaking in using them, we'd tip off their sensors and show up like a fucking Christmas tree."

"So I guess that means were going in loud?"

"We can't, you know we have to extract the objective, anything less than a stealthy approach would jeopardize that."

Another sigh.

"So what's the plan then?"

Bishop once again took another glance through his sniper scope. After a few minutes he spoke.

"There's two ghosts that are coming farther out in their patrols than the others. I'll take them out. That'll leave a hole and you and Pawn can slip in."

"Sounds good, but what about you?"

I'll stay here, and spot for you, and if it hits the fan, I'll cover you to the EZ."

"So just get in there and grab the package."

"Yeah, but make sure to leave the bastards a little going away present before you leave."

Bishop tossed Rook a small object a little bigger a football. he caught it, and after examining it, let out a low apprecitative whistle.

"A shiva? And just how did you come across this little number?"

"Section 3 deemed it a "viable tactical asset" for the mission."

Rook smiled behind his visor.

"All right then."


	2. Infiltration

**0125 hours, October 18, 2532 (Military Calendar)\ Lambda Serpentis **

**System, New Mongolian Desert, Jericho IV. Outside Covenant Encampment.**

Rook and Pawn slid silently down the dune, quickly coming into view of the target ghosts. Rook opened his com channel.

_"Targets in sight. Bishop?"_

An acknowledgement light winked on in his HUD. A moment later two barely audible cracks echoed across the desert, and the pilots were rocked out of their seats as the rounds tore through their skulls in a gory mass of luminescent blood, brain matter and chunks of pale bone. The com squawked.

_"The doors been opened, it would be rude to not go in, right?"_

Acknowledgement lights winked as the two Spartans sprinted forward, covering the half kilometer distance in thirty seconds. They quickly came upon the purple cylindrical tents that housed the grunts, and crouched behind them. Pawn, opened up the com again.

_"Bishop, any clue where they're keeping the target?"_

A nav marker appeared on Pawn's HUD. Ninety meters to his left. Simple enough, except for the two squads of jackals standing outside the tent in which the marker pointed to. Pawn turned to Rook.

"Any ideas?"

Rook shrugged slightly.

"Those are guards for sure. They're not gonna leave that spot and we don't have much time, it's not gonna be long before they're gonna notice when the patrols don't turn in."

Pawn sighed.

"And here I thought we could do this quick and clean."

Rook chuckled bitterly.

"Since when has anything we've gotten put on us been 'quick and easy'? We're Spartans, we're the ones who have to deal with all the 'suicidal, messy bullshit ops'."

"So quick and messy?"

"Quick and messy."

Pawn removed his silenced M7 from the magnetized partition on his armored leg, and raised it in one fluid motion.

"I'll take the three on the left."

Rook raised his silenced M6/C.

"100 credits I take all three out in as many shots."

"Tch, cocky bastard. Don't use the scope and your on."

An acknowledgement light winked in Pawn's HUD.

"Now."

Rook's first shot caught the lead jackal in the center of his forehead and rocked it off it's heels. The three jackals immediately to it's left barely had enough time to bring their shields to life before the muffled cough of the M7 broke the night's silence and the multiple 23mm rounds tore open their torsos, their purple brackish blood splattering the lighter hues of the tent. The remaining two jackals turned in the direction of the source of the fire, their shields brought to bear, only to have their vision filled with the sight of Rook charging them, knife drawn. He grabbed the nearest jackals shield arm, dragging the alien forward while he used his other hand to slam his knife down through it's skull, snapping the blade off in the process. He brought the corpse in front of him as his comrade fired it's needler at him, the pink shards colliding with the improvised meat shield. A moment later Pawn's M7 let out a cough, and the last jackal collapsed in a pool of it's own blood.

"Let's go."

"You owe me a hundred credits."

"Oh shut up."

"Ok, later. We should hurry though, someone is sure to have heard all that noise.

They both strode past the carcasses, with Rook quickly policing one of the fallen jackals needlers.

As they entered the tent, Pawn quickly glanced in the direction of the Nav point. Before them, suspended by some sort of glowing blue shackles, was a man. He was covered in blood. And the remains of his uniform hung from him in tatters. It was quite clear he had been tortured extensively. Pawn recognised him immediately.

The man was Admiral Preston Cole.


End file.
